


Event Horizon

by killaidanturner



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Angst, Biting, Love, M/M, Prompt Fill, Smut, fragment writing, how many times can I mention space in my fics, in all of them apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaidanturner/pseuds/killaidanturner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They build a grey cloud world. They pass smoke between each other's lungs and crowd into each other’s spaces by pushing each other against walls, against counter tops, and kitchen tables. Mitchell leaves marks on his neck, on his hips, the shape of his fingers pressed into flesh. And if they could have each other’s hearts they would, they would have them cut up and in pieces, bleeding out and irreparable with the other one at fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Event Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill for, "things you said between your teeth"

Anders and Mitchell build their relationship on fabrications, truths and lies bleed together. They create an intricate web, and each one tries to find the right thread to pull to unravel it.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** Happiness lies in the rise of a skirt.

 

Anders spends his time pressed between someone else's thighs. Feels warm flesh against his, petal soft and sweat slicked. He inhales perfumes, floral, citrus, and ones that are sickly sweet and he has to bend them over to not cringe at the way it makes his stomach churn.

 

When he first meets Mitchell he lets him inside, lets him fuck him into the mattress till he feels overstimulated, overworked, and overwrought.

 

When he wakes to empty, cold sheets and a pressure working its way between his lungs. He feels ok with it.

 

 **Truth:**  Happiness doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** Anders never minded the way cotton scratched across his skin.

 

Anders spent his time staring at ceilings that weren’t his. Made sure he didn’t leave his number so he never had to expect a phone call. The longest he ever went without being in his own bed was six nights in a row. Each night his legs tangled in someone else’s sheet. Sometimes they smelled fresh, right out of the dryer. Other times they smelled of sweat, smoke, and salt.

 

 **Truth:**  When Mitchell is tangled in his bed he wonders how many ceilings he has memorized through his life.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** Anders doesn’t need him.

 

Mitchell leaves cigarette butts in the ashtray until they’re overflowing. He leaves mud on his shoes and tracks them inside the apartment. He leaves dishes in the sink, take out on the counter, clothes on the bathroom floor.

 

“I’m starting to wonder what purpose you serve. You’re a fucking mess, worse than me.” Anders says it as he picks up a glass that was stuck to the coffee table, “use a fucking coaster next time.”

 

“I’m here because you need someone to fuck you into the mattress each night.” Mitchell looks up from the couch with a devilish grin.

 

 **Truth:**  There’s comfort in the ash of his cigarettes. Comfort in the slow burn pressed between Mitchell’s lips and the embers as they flicker in the dark.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:**  Anders says he can leave at any time, that it doesn’t bother him. That he would prefer if Mitchell just got it over with.

 

“Have you ever stayed?” It’s one of the only questions that Anders asks about him.

 

“Never.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You know why.” Mitchell won't look him in the eyes.

 

 **Truth:**  Monsters come and go.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:**  When Mitchell comes home covered in another's blood, tears threatening his eyes. Anders remains calm.

 

“We’ll deal with it.”

 

“I can’t, I can’t deal with it!”

 

“It’s not the first time you’ve done it, it won't be your last.”

 

Anders doesn’t mention Box Car, he barely knows about it himself. What he does know is based off of his own research. He spends his time learning Mitchell’s habits from the past, picks up on small cues. Like they time he told Mitchell he could accompany him on a weekend business trip and to, _‘suck my cock to help me think’_  to which Mitchell blatantly refused when Anders said they would be taking a train ride.

 

Anders started researching, starting collecting small details here and there to try to figure it out. He doesn’t tell Mitchell of the twenty people on that train, of the cover up. Its when he realizes he’s looking at the imperfections of it that he knows he is in too deep, that he would rather help him clean up a crime scene than to lose the feel of his cool skin pressed against his.

 

 **Truth:** His lungs draw in shuddering breaths.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** “I don’t know what to call it.”

 

They build a grey cloud world. They pass smoke between each other's lungs and crowd into each other’s spaces by pushing each other against walls, against counter tops, and kitchen tables. Mitchell leaves marks on his neck, on his hips, the shape of his fingers pressed into flesh. And if they could have each other’s hearts they would, they would have them cut up and in pieces, bleeding out and irreparable with the other one at fault.

 

If Anders ever learned the word love he made sure that it was forgotten. That it was lost and buried or reserved for a different kind of love. One made just for his brothers though he would never say it. When he feels a bloom in his chest when he looks at Mitchell sitting on the couch with food in his hand and his eyes focused on the TV and wanting nothing more than to have his attention is when he realizes.

 

 **Truth:** “I’ve stopped seeing other people in case if you’re wondering. So you know, it’s just you.” Mitchell _devours._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** Anders craved silence.

 

When Mitchell speaks it stills Bragi enough to sound like faint static in the back of his mind, a lost radio station trying to catch onto a frequency.

 

Anders prompts him to talk, asks for stories. Sometimes when he’s really desperate for Bragi to shut up he pulls a book from a shelf and tosses it at Mitchell without a word.

 

He listens to the cadence in his voice, the crescendo when he gets to the high point in a story, the hush of his whispers. He takes in every syllable, memorizes how Mitchell pronounces certain vowels. How some words come in quick and others come out slow and drawn out.

 

When Bragi is quieted Anders studies Mitchell’s features as he reads, studies the rise in his eyebrows, the sharp curve of his jaw, the angular panes of his cheeks. Memorizes the lines in his hand, the pointed joint of his knuckles.

 

When Mitchell catches Anders looking at him with such intensity Anders immediately blames it on Bragi, that he’s trying to write ‘a fucking sonnet about your stupid fucking fashion sense and your hideous gloves. I was trying not to throw up.’ is what comes out of his mouth. But he thinks that the dark curls running his fingers are entirely of his own volition thought he would never say it.

 

 **Truth:** Anders just wanted a different type of noise.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** Mitchell would never relive his life.

 

Mitchell tells stories, he has funny stories, embarrassing stories, stories filled with wild characters and even more wild situations. He doesn’t talk about the truth that it webbed between the fine threads.

 

Ander’s says he doesn't want to know but some nights he finds himself craving the darker parts. Find’s himself asking Mitchell about Paris in the ‘30s, the truth of it.

 

Mitchell tells him of some of the lives he taken, tells him he would never go back.

 

It’s a fallacy, carefully built up over years and years.

 

 **Truth:**  If Mitchell could go back and do a life time of fear all over again, he would do it all the same. He would love the same, again and again if it meant his nights were spend wrapped in warm sheets and with a man who doesn’t take things slowly. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:**  Mitchell is bleeding Anders out.

 

If Mitchell had a heart it would beat the same way a bird’s wings would against a cage.

 

Anders convinces him to sink his teeth into the crook of his neck, to draw blood and he’ll make Mitchell stop. Mitchell is always hesitant but trusts Anders more than Anders will ever trust him. He feels the pinch of Anders flesh underneath him and he lets the blood flow into his mouth.

 

Anders is always wanting to take it one step further, pushing Mitchell to his limits. Whispering into Mitchell’s ear, “fuck me, I need you inside me.”

 

When they’re both covered in blood and cum, smeared between them and Mitchell is saying, “I thought you hated the sight of blood.” and Anders is looking up at dark eyes and blood stained lips with Bragi completely silent in the back of his mind Anders thinks it may just be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

 

 **Truth:**  Anders is the poisonous one.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:**  Anders says that what they’re doing doesn’t mean anything. Mitchell just happens to be better than most.

 

Mitchell finds his pulse, resting under warm skin. Anders is never soft, never a moment when his guard is down but he always finds Mitchell’s mouth in the dark and when they kiss it's dirty and pulsing between them. Mitchell’s thumb is in his mouth, Anders nails down Mitchell’s back. Mitchell’s free hand parting Anders’ thighs and the night sky bleeding between them.

 

Shivering and trembling, they wouldn’t call their hands brave but rather cruel. How they dig and dig and dig until there is nothing left but the bones between them and the truth of each other bled out on sheets. Mitchell’s palm wrapped around Anders’ throat.

 

When Mitchell’s eyes bleed black Anders thinks of black holes, of electromagnetic radiation and shit he learned in school, heavy weight of textbooks in his hand. He thinks of being sucked in, of particles passing over the event horizon. He thinks that this is more beautiful than any sky filled with stars, that he would rather look at ink black and never return.

 

 **Truth:** Mitchell is sinking into his skin.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Lie:** “I’ll never fall in love, especially not with someone like you John Mitchell.”

 

Anders is treading water and he is afraid of being pulled under. Afraid of something endless, of its dark corners and unexplored depths. Of waves that crash and corrode rock, that wear down hard surfaces over time. How water can create chasms.

 

When Mitchell comes home one day smelling like ocean mist, like salt and the tide, Anders loses himself in it. Licks a stripe up Mitchell’s exposed throat and tastes the salt there and thinks that he would wait for this. That he would stand on a cliff’s edge if it meant that Mitchell would be his.

 

Maybe its the way that Mitchell looks at him with hungry eyes at 2am and puts his head between Anders’ thighs until he is delirious with it.

 

 **Truth:**  He is falling, falling, falling. And the ocean has welcoming arms.

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on tumblr, send me a prompt at any time, at [killaidanturner](http://killaidanturner.tumblr.com/)


End file.
